What's in the gallery?
We dissolve stuck and rewrite patterns. We apply radical playfulness to life (when we feel like it!), embarking on internal adventures (credo of Safety First). We have a fake band called Solved By Cake. We build invisible sanctuaries, invent words and worlds, breathe awe and wonder.
We are not impressed by monsters. Except when we are. We explore the connections between internal territories and surrounding environment to learn what marvelously supportive delicious space feels like, and how to take exquisite care of ourselves. We transform things.* We glow wild.**
* For example: Desire, fear, worry, pain-and-trauma, boundaries, that problematic word which rhymes with flaweductivity.
** Fair warning: Self-fluency has been known to lead to extremely subversive behavior, including treasuring yourself unconditionally, unapologetically taking up space, experiencing outrageously improbable levels of self-acceptance, and general rejoicing in aliveness.
What's in the gallery?
We dissolve stuck and rewrite patterns. We apply radical playfulness to life (when we feel like it!), embarking on internal adventures (credo of Safety First). We have a fake band called Solved By Cake. We build invisible sanctuaries, invent words and worlds, breathe awe and wonder.
We are not impressed by monsters. Except when we are. We explore the connections between internal territories and surrounding environment to learn what marvelously supportive delicious space feels like, and how to take exquisite care of ourselves. We transform things.* We glow wild.**
* For example: Desire, fear, worry, pain-and-trauma, boundaries, that problematic word which rhymes with flaweductivity.
** Fair warning: Self-fluency has been known to lead to extremely subversive behavior, including treasuring yourself unconditionally, unapologetically taking up space, experiencing outrageously improbable levels of self-acceptance, and general rejoicing in aliveness.
Remembering and not remembering.
The third-worst job I ever had involved a lot of dread.
Dread and anxiety and pressure and deadness and agonizing wishing it would end.
Maybe not as full-of-dread as the Moroccan mafia toy import company, and maybe not as full-of-deadness as the assembly line.
But the former I’ve mostly repressed and it’s gone. And as for the latter, I was too depressed to really be there, so I don’t remember. I mean, of course I remember but it seems like too many lifetimes ago.
No. That lifeless sad sad sad shell-person could not have been me. That is a dream.
But the third-worst job. That was definitely me.
Remembering and not remembering.
The official hours were eight to five. The actual hours were more like eight to seven.
There was one twenty minute break for lunch, during which I was still expected to keep answering the phones.
I guess you could say I was the secretary. Who was also the office manager. Who was also the personal assistant to the CEO. Who was also a bunch of other things.
During the days I was efficient, competent, organized, rushed. Also: screamed at, berated, humiliated, overburdened, unappreciated.
During whatever brief time I was both awake and not at work, I was engaged with trying to remember who I was. And sometimes trying to forget.
Mornings. Evenings. Mornings.
To arrive at work at eight a.m, I had to catch the 6:45 bus to Ramat HaHayal.
The evening bus was much longer. You never knew when it would come, and it took a winding, unbearably slow detour through every town, every neighborhood.
It was a pretty unlikely bus line for a terrorist to target, but terrorists in Israel are notoriously non-strategic and stranger things have happened, and every evening I would think maybe today is the day.
If the bus exploded, I wouldn’t have to go back to work the next day. If I died, at least I never had to go through a day like the one I’d just had.
And if I didn’t, the government would put me on a pension and take care of me. That usually got me through the first half of the ride home.
Home. Not really home. A place with a bed and a narrow space (maybe two feet by five feet) in which to do what I called monk’s yoga.
Monk’s yoga. And the other three.
There were four things that kept me sane.
One.
My boyfriend, who was four years younger than me and whom I loved so much it hurt.
He was getting ready to move to Amsterdam, which hurt more. And he didn’t need me the way I needed him, which hurt even more. A lot of hurt, in short.
In the twenty or so minutes between seeing him and falling asleep halfway through my dinner, I got to see myself through the eyes of someone who thought I was hot and smart and crazy-talented. And that was my salvation.
Two.
Writing. I didn’t have time for it but I did it anyway.
Scribbling bits and pieces on post-it notes. Typing up stories on my one day off.
It was probably the only time in my life when I had no problem at all self-defining as a writer.
When I wrote, I had power. I was in flow. My being-here-now had meaning. And that was my salvation.
Three.
Berlin.
One day I was going to get out of the deadness, quit the job and get to Berlin.
I got to speak a fair amount of German at work, and remembering each time that one day I would be gone and this would be nothing but a crappy memory was also salvation.
And then there was the monk’s yoga.
Yoga had gotten me through my divorce, through unemployment, through poverty, through unspeakable things. And it was going to get me through this.
I knew that.
And that is why I woke up at an impossibly early hour.
To have fifty sweet minutes with myself and my breath and my body. Not thinking. Just being.
The space I had to move in was so tiny and so cramped that there was a very limited number of poses that could be done in it. Like in a monk’s cell.
I did them all. Slowly. The way the monk would.
And then I maneuvered myself onto my back on the cool tiles. To do nothing for five minutes. It was going to be the most peaceful five minutes of my day, and I knew it.
Then it was over and I was back to multi-tasking: having my first cry of the day while rolling a cigarette and eating a piece of fruit and leaving a note on the door.
Monk’s yoga. Though he probably wouldn’t have cried or had the cigarette. Still, we shared a cell.
Oh, and now we’re here.
There is a reason for all of this:
I met her (I mean, me) again this morning and we had the most … unlikely conversation that I wanted to share with you.
And I did monk’s yoga this morning too and it was delightful.
And there are so many things I want to say and explain and wonder about.
But I’m going to save all of that for a second post.
In the meantime I will just place a magic wand that is also a tuning fork between me and her so that we can bridge the gaps. And I will say this too:
What a beautiful thing it is to be here now, in present time, in this moment, with everything I know and everything I have been.
I separate: that was then, this is now.
And I come back together: We are both writers. We both practice monk’s yoga. Slowly.
And I am so relieved to have reached this time when there is nothing needing to be forgotten.
And comment zen for today ….
We all have our stuff. We’re all working on our stuff.
It’s a process.
Memory can be tricky. Same goes for wisdom.
We try to meet each other with as much understanding as we can. And we’re also sovereign beings, which means that everyone gets to have his or her own experience.
If you have had difficult jobs or stories to share, or things that have brought you moments of everything-is-better-now, these are welcome. Besos.
A brief interview with my blog.
Yes.
Yes.
And we begin.
Me: So, you’re my blog.
My blog: Yes.
Me: I wish you had a name I could call you.
My blog: Okay. Pause. If I think of something I’ll let you know.
Me: Isn’t it a little weird that we hang out six times a week and I’ve never asked you if you have a name?
My blog: Not really.
Me: I have some questions for you.
My blog: Yes, I gathered that when I read the title of the post. Thanks for letting me know it wouldn’t be too long.
Me: Right on. Can we start?
My blog: Go for it.
Collecting information.
Me: Sometimes I have so many things to write about here that it hurts. Bursting! My hands hurt from scribbling ideas. And other times I don’t know what I want to say. And all those scribbled ideas just get on my nerves.
My blog: What’s the question?
Me: Well, I wonder why that is. I don’t really understand what’s going on there.
My blog: You’re not asking permission to write a post about not wanting to write a post, are you? Because we don’t do that.
Me: No. That’s not really my style either. It’s more like, I want to know as much as possible about you and how you work, so I can solve this problem myself. Right now I’m just collecting information.
My blog: Okay. What do you want to know?
What do you know that I don’t know?
Me: What do you know that I don’t know?
My blog: A lot.
Me: I thought as much. Are you going to share any of it?
My blog: Listen.
Me: I’m listening.
My blog: Okay.
You don’t know how comforting it is to people that you don’t have all the answers.
You don’t know how reassuring it is for them that you work on your stuff in public.
You don’t know what it’s like to encounter a wizard and go ohohoho ohhhhh a wizard.
Me: You mean like what Isabel said? About how every time she goes to my blog she runs away, because it’s like skipping through the forest and all of a sudden you’re at the wizard’s house and it’s just too scary?
My blog: Okay. Also like that.
What do you wish I understood already?
Me: What do you wish I understood already?
My blog: That you are enough. That you have always been enough. That everything you do is enough.
Me: That isn’t what I thought you were going to say. I thought you want to encourage me to do more and do better.
My blog: Why would I want to do that?
Me: I don’t know.
My blog: Neither do I.
Me: What am I supposed to do with that?
My blog: If you keep acknowledging the enoughness of the people who read, without telling them that this is what you are doing, enoughness will just become one of the qualities that lives here.
Me: Like safety and sanctuary?
My blog: Yes, and like permission and sovereignty and playfulness and grounding and radiance and ridiculousness and delight.
Me: I had no idea so many qualities lived here.
My blog: That’s because you’ve been friends with them for so long.
If you could give me one piece of advice, what would it be?
Me: One piece of advice?
My blog: I already gave it to you. You are enough. Stop trying to be what Hiro calls the shepherd. Be in your enoughness.
Me: How do I “be in my enoughness”?
My blog: By saying that what you do is enough.
Me: But how can it be enough?
My blog: ….
Me:I f it’s true that what I do is enough … then wouldn’t that kind of imply that I am done? I don’t want to be done. I’m not ready to be done!
My blog: No. There is no done.
Me: Good.
My blog: Just be in your enoughness.
Me: What does it look like, this being in my enoughness?
My blog: Talk to me. Talk to the enoughness. Talk to the you-from-later who already knows how to do this because she learned it.
Me: So … more interviews?
My blog: There may be some more interviews. You can also just have casual conversations. And go horseback riding together.
Horseback riding?
Me: Horseback riding?
My blog: It was just an example. You don’t have to. I just meant that it doesn’t have to be so formal. Why don’t you have a gratitude picnic and see who shows up?
Me: You totally remember every post I’ve ever written.
My blog: Yes. I spend a lot of time in the archives. You should visit. There’s some good stuff in there.
Me: There’s also a lot of terrible stuff in there.
My blog: And yet, you are enough. See? That’s how it works.
Me: “And yet, I am enough.” That’s how it works.
My blog: Yes.
Me: So I need to learn more about this enoughness thing. And, in order to do that, I need to: have picnics and ask questions and declare that I am enough.
My blog: That sounds good.
It’s all connected.
Me: How does enoughness relate to sustainability and queenliness and Bolivia and throwing Rallies and all the other stuff I want to write about?
My blog: It’s all connected.
Me: What’s that supposed to mean? I mean, in this context.
My blog: The more you are in your enoughness and connecting to this quality — this experience — of enoughness, the more you will see how the enoughness grows everything else you want to do in the world.
Me: So it’s okay if I don’t write about these themes just yet because they need to come from the me who already knows about enoughness?
My blog: I knew you’d understand. You’re so quick. It’s why we work so well together.
Me: We work so well together?
My blog: Six hundred and five posts and you hadn’t noticed that?
Me: I guess not.
My blog: That’s why you need to spend more time experiencing enoughness.
Me: You’re probably right.
My blog: Of course I’m right. That’s why you interviewed me.
And comment zen for today.
Enoughness is a difficult quality. Having conversations with one’s blog … as it turns out … also difficult.
No advice please. Just permission and space to experience things the way I experience them. And of course the same permission and space extend to you. Love to all the commenter mice, the Beloved Lurkers and everyone who reads. I appreciate you all tremendously.
Very Personal Ads #57: turning Not-Doing into an extreme sport
Personal ads! They’re … personal! Very.
So my itty bitty personal ads made me realize that it’s time to make a regular practice of trying to feel okay asking for stuff.
Even when the asking thing feels weird and conflicted.
Ever since I posted the first one asking my perfect house to find me, which united me with Hoppy House, I have been a fan of the madness that is personal ads.
And now it’s my Sunday ritual for clarity and remembering and stuff like that. Yay, ritual!
Let us doooo eeeet.
And let us say WAH. Because somehow I feel better whenever I say WAH.
Thing 1: more of this beautiful thing please!
Here’s what I want:
My writing has been such a place of comfort this past week. ELATION!
Now I am on my week of teaching-recovery-just-for-me time in New Mexico and I would love to remain in this state of flow … or to progress to the next state of whatever-it-is that is also pleasurable and good for my writing ….
Not sure how to phrase this one. Hmmm.
May the muses or the shining ones (or the magical properties of green chiles) keep smiling upon me. Something like that.
Ways this could work:
Who knows?
I’ve been trying to examine and analyze the components of what made this past week so outstanding.
Included in this are so many elements and components that came together to make the container for the writing retreat. Among them:
- being away from home and the familiar
- daily Shiva Nata with dedicated time and space for it
- daily Old Turkish Lady yoga with dedicated time and space for it
- daily teaching, which is always good for my brain and my heart
- designated writing time during which thirty other women in this sisterhood of writers were also scribbling away
- labyrinthing my stucknesses (taking them into the labyrinth and untangling-walking them out)
- hand-writing my pre-writing invocation before beginning
- deciding what questions to ask before sitting down to write
- only writing things that have to do with Very Interior Design — in this case, learning about my relationship to my stuff and not working on my actual writing project as a way to sneakily write the project.
It is impossible to know right now which of these — if any — are the vital ones. So I’m going to need lots of experimentation, and some luck.
My commitment.
To notice how I feel. What supports me and what doesn’t.
To pay attention whenever I make use of one or more of these components, and to take notes on what works and what doesn’t.
To ask my gentleman friend to help me with maintaining uninterrupted time for just writing. Well, to make a distinction that is clear to both of us about when I am writing and when I am doing work-related things and it is okay to approach.
Thing 2: Rally!
Here’s what I want:
Last week I had an ask about the Rally, and while I got lots of good thinking done related to it, I still haven’t done anything with it.
I’d like to find out what needs to happen in order for us to rally together. And maybe even take some steps.
Ways this could work:
Writing it love letters.
Interviewing myself about it.
Lots of Dance of Shiva. Outdoors, when possible.
My commitment.
To stay receptive and curious.
To not beat myself up over the fact that there has only been internal, not external movement on this yet.
Or: if I do feel frustrated with myself, to give that reaction the legitimacy to exist, even if I’d rather not be in it.
To be as playful and silly and ridiculous as possible in my approach to figuring out what this Rally thing needs.
Thing 3: rest
Here’s what I want:
Lots and lots of rest.
Body rest. Mental rest.
Turning not-doing into an extreme sport. Extreme not doing!
Ways this could work:
Napping.
Not napping, but closing my eyes.
Getting bath salts and hiding in the tub. Slow slow slow yoga.
Booking some sort of frou-frou spa body treatment where they slather goo all over you and then let you just stay there while the goo does its gooey good-for-you thing.
Yes, there will be much goo-slathering.
I could possibly go to see a film with my gentleman friend, if we can find something HSP-friendly.
Walking without purpose.
Breathing clean mountain air. I’m sure there are other things too, and I can’t think of any more. If you have loving deshouldified suggestions, I am happy to receive them in the comments.
My commitment.
To get over my phone phobia stuff long enough to book the slathering of goo. Gah. Why do not more places let you book online?
To find out more about this rest-thing and my relationship to it.
(Actually, I’ve already been writing to it and about it all week, so we are much better friends than we used to be, but to keep that up).
To remember.
Thing 4: Good things for Chris.
Here’s what I want:
Y’all probably know Chris Anthony aka @etherjammer, as he is a regular here and a commenter mouse and a delightful human being. Speaking of delight:
Delight is a big part of his thing and his message — specifically appreciating it, and planting seeds of it in your business to help your Right People fall madly in love with you.
He is doing a Delightineering thing! I don’t know anything about it yet, but I invited him to leave a description of it as part of his Very Personal Ad today.
My wish: may his new project receive the loving attention it deserves and may he feel safe and comfortable letting it be seen.
Ways this could work:
Actually, I’m kind of hoping that this will help. Other ways are good too.
My commitment.
To wish all sorts of good things for him, as I’m sure you will too.
Progress report on past Very Personal Ads.
Just to update you on what’s happened since last time.
I wanted to remember that my writing retreat isn’t for the writing. It’s for learning about my relationship to the writing.
That ended up being my focus for the week. I was always in it. And it worked nisim v’niflaot (miracles and wonders!), so I’m feeling extremely relieved and happy about that. What a perfect ask.
I wanted help maintaining my space while teaching, and that was also a huge focus of my week and my teaching (encouraging my lovely students to mess around with creative and kooky ways to maintain their space and feel comfortable there).
The funny thing is that I do not even slightly remember asking this last week, but that really ended up being the theme. So very glad that I did ask. Yay.
And I wanted something to happen with the Rally and it totally hasn’t, but I’m actually fine with that. And I sense that I know what direction I want to take with it. We’ll see. I’ll let you know next week.
Comment zen. Here’s what I’d love today.
- Your own personal ads, small or large. Things you’ve asked for. Or are asking for. Or would like to ask for. Or updates on last time!
What I’d rather not have:
- The word “manifest”.
- Shoulds. As in, “You should be doing it like this” or “That’s not the right way to ask for things — instead it should be like x, y and z”
- To be judged, psychoanalyzed or given advices.
Wishing love and good things for your Very Personal Ads! So glad for everyone doing this with me
Friday Chicken #104: the record
Because it’s Friday AGAIN. And because traditions are important. In which I cover the good stuff and the hard stuff in my week, trying for the non-preachy, non-annoying side of self-reflection.
And you get to join in if you feel like it.
Yeah, you kind of have to say the title out loud.
And then finish the sentence.
Like this: one hundred, and for the record I shouldn’t have to explain myself.
Or: one hundred, and for the record this is actually a perfectly cromulent title for a Friday Chicken. Yes.
The hard stuff
The harsh corners.
My bed at Mabel Dodge Luhan house (in the most fabulous room ever) had a … footboard? Is that what it’s called?
At the foot of the bed there were large carved wooden protuberances, at any rate.
Harsh bed frame corners!
And I have giant purple swollen bruises from (repeatedly) walking into the harsh corners.
Even after I macguyvered a ridiculous solution involving many blankets, it was still kind of … ridiculous.
Ow. OW.
Getting SUGARED.
Ugh. Disaster. Awful and annoying and miserable.
(Background: I quit sugar ten years ago and am incredibly sensitive to it.)
So first, the reaction itself:
Extreme agitation. Pounding heart. I get so hyper and so uncomfortable and so disconnected from myself.
My knees knock together, I can’t stop touching things, I speak way too fast and way too much and I can’t focus on anything. It sucks.
Then, the coming down:
Tears. A long, agonizing, sleepless night.
And also the frustration with myself for not asking.
I always ask. I even asked about the not-suspicious-sounding bleu cheese sauce (yes, it had agave syrup in it and yes I avoided it like the plague).
But I thought I could have curry with my rice. One bite said otherwise. Oh, regret.
And then more sleeplessness.
Somehow that rough night of being hyper and discombobulated set off a kind of chain reaction.
Because I couldn’t sleep the next night either.
Everything is harder without rest. And rest became one of the big themes of the week, in all sorts of interesting and challenging ways.
Something I really needed got all wet.
So I put it on the roof to bake dry in the sun. But then in the afternoon the skies opened and it got soaked again.
Problematic.
Slipping into an old and familiar pattern I thought was long done with.
Painful yearning for something you know is bad for you, you know you don’t want, you know you can’t have.
It comes with its own particular flavor and imprint: part pain and part delight.
So addictive. So soothing and distressing at the same time.
A week without my gentleman friend.
Sadmouse me.
Oh, and this is the sweetest thing. He said:
I am the Captain of Loose Ends when we are apart.
Aw.
The good stuff
Slightly further along in my quest to achieve oneness with green chiles.
Progress!
Seriously, I love New Mexico so much I can hardly stand it.
The number of minutes between me getting off the plane in Albuquerque and me putting green chile sauce in my mouth was … not very many. Possibly two.
Jubilation!
And Selma and I went to our favorite place for green chile stew. Twice. Probably also going again this afternoon.
My room.
Aside from the bed (and the harsh corners!), this was the most incredible thing.
The giant veranda, with the view of trees and mountains. Hours and delicious hours spent writing outside (I’m writing out there right now!)
Watching the rain. Smelling the rain.
The claw foot bathtub in the tiny room, with windows that D. H. Lawrence painted and thick wood beams across the ceiling. Heaven.
Oh, and access to the roof.
Dancing on the rooftop.
Doing Shiva Nata up there.
Bare feet on the roof, trees above me, mountains in the distance. Birds overhead and at eye level.
I have no words to describe how magical this was.
Teaching.
Oh, this lovely group of people at Jen’s Writer’s Retreat.
With daily Shiva Nata blowing my mind and everyone else’s.
Transcendent.
There is no other way to describe it.
Spontaneous joyful singing. Love, contentment, gratitude, wonder.
And of course Selma and I had great fun teaching Old Turkish Lady yoga and various destuckification practices.
Kindness.
So many people on Twitter were so lovely to me when I was strung out on speed oh right, sugar.
They kept me company and made me laugh.
Especially Kirsty, who wrote a very long and very wonderful story to help me fall asleep. Thank you!
WRITING!
I got shocking amounts of writing done this week.
Brilliant, kooky, unexpected, hilarious, sad, powerful, surprising, new things.
Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. Yay.
So pleased with the Very Personal Ad I wrote Sunday, that set the tone and the feel for all of my writing this week.
Being queen.
Lots of work this week on being powerful and sovereign and gracious, having strong, flexible, loving boundaries.
It turns out I am finally getting better at this.
Great things I read this week.
About the Bechdel Test (Alison!).
And Jolie’s sweet and marvelous post about what not to do: NO KISSING!
It’s about composition, but it’s about a lot of things.
And … playing live at the meme beach house!
Yes, that’s a Stuism too.
My brother and I have this thing where we come up with ridiculous band names and then say in this really pretentious, knowing tone, “Oh, well, you know, it’s just one guy.”
This week?
The Harsh Corners.
Yes. YES. It’s just one guy.
That’s it for me …
And yes yes yes, of course you can join in my Friday ritual right here in the comments bit if you feel like it.
Yeah? Anything hard and/or good happen in your week?
And, as always, have a glorrrrrrrrrrrrious day and a restful weekend-ing.
And a happy week to come. Shabbat shalom.
A smart thing, a happy thing, a ridiculous thing and a word.
Okay. It’s getting to be slightly absurd the way I have been disclaimerizing all my posts this week.
So this one? Also not really a post. Whatever that means.
More of a … oh, let’s call it a summing up.
This week of teaching at Jen Louden’s life-changingly great Laughing Crying Writer’s Retreat in Taos has been so full of fantastic.
And there are all these bits and pieces I want to talk about with you! Will try to throw as much as possible into the Chicken tomorrow.
But maybe just a couple things for now. A smart thing, a happy thing, a ridiculous thing and a word.
A smart thing!
Remember in the Very Personal Ad Sunday when I decided to not work on the book but instead on my relationship to the book?
So. This turned out to accidentally be the most genius thing in the entire world.
So much freedom, so much permission, so much playful silliness! And no struggling, because there was always stuff I wanted to write about:
What I know about hanging out with Writer Me. Getting Metaphor Mouse to rewrite some problem concepts. Interacting with my monsters and my various stuckified patterns related to being someone who writes.
The results were huge. Not only did I destuckify like mad, I was able to thoroughly document everything I do when I work on my own stuff.
As I untangled my own patterns, a ton of the techniques that I use with my clients and in workshops got … written down. Which is what would have happened had I actually worked on the book, only it would have been way more tortured and agonizing.
So the choice to process the process instead of doing the process made room for all sorts of brilliant things to happen.
Sneakified mouse = me! Oh boy!
Also, the shivanautical moments of bing are coming so fast and with such intensity that it’s really all I can do document them before the next flood begins. So much for my fear of not knowing what I want to say.
A happy thing!
I spent a lot of time this week trying to discover (or remember) the word that describes the flavor of happy that I have been experiencing.
The word for that … teary welling-up. When you’re so ___________ to be alive and be here and be now that you could kiss every pebble and gaze adoringly at your own fingers and how wonderful they are.
It has gratitude in it, yes, but that’s not really the whole of it.
Bliss is close, but bliss has sadly gone in the direction of “I followed my bliss and became a therapist” or whatever, so it’s lost that essence.
That thing! That tingling, joyful thrum of anticipation and wonder.
I’ve decided to call it ELATION.
That is the closest. And it has been a very long time since I’ve felt this sensation for more than odd moments. Significant chunks of this week have been spent in a state of ELATION.
Grounded and centered and conscious. Not giddy. Not high. Not buzzing. Just a deep, rich I AM HERE AND I LOVE YOU, MOUNTAINS that I have not felt in so long.
Obviously a lot of this is from all the Shiva Nata and the hot buttered epiphanies and the Old Turkish Lady yoga and the writing writing writing writing. And some of it comes from the green chiles.
But this …. ELATION. Oh, it is a beautiful and hard-to-explain place to visit.
A ridiculous thing!
I couldn’t get much cell reception this week (and the writing was tugging at my hand), so I didn’t get to talk to my gentleman friend. We mostly communicated by Direct Message on Twitter in the form of a ridiculous game that made itself up for our amusement.
I don’t know if this could possibly be funny to anyone other than me (it’s based on his knowledge of my bordering-on-phobic dislike of the word “caulk”). But it ended up being a useful Retreat Survival Tactic.
My Gentleman Friend: So I won’t mention the upcoming caulking project.
Me: Ew. Gross. What’s WRONG with you? I baulk at your caulk.
MGF: Well, don’t just sit there and saulk! #jonas
Me: Don’t forget to deal with those celery staulks.
Also those seagull waves in your hair are just a bit flaukish. #80s
MGF: Now you’re just maulking me. In a sort of insincerely maudlin way! #mawkish
Me: Also, you’re INCREDIBLE. Like the Haulk. #hawkish
MGF: Wagnerian, even. #rideoftheVaulkeries
Me: You might have to take a short Waulkeries off a long pier if you keep that up. But if you paint, wear your Smaulkeries! #butnotdungarees
Me: Or are you thinking of the Thirteen Claulkeries #thurber
MGF: You’re close – I was actually thinking of the children’s rhyme. Hickery Dickery Daulkeries.
Me: And please no references to New Kids on the Blaulkeries. #shazam
MGF: In that case, how about references to Columbo, a disputed island near Argentina & a British holiday involving flames & fireworks? #shazoom
Me: Yooooooooouuuuuu! I should claulk you. Or maybe blaulk you — on Twitter.
MGF: I’m just going to waulk away, veeeery slowly now. Or perhaps we should taulk it over?
Me: Yes, you’d better give up completely. Laulk staulk and barrel!
MGF: Laulk. Now THAT is gross.
Me: You’re hilarious. But not really one to taulk. By the way … knaulk knaulk! …
MGF: Who’s there? (he asks trepidatiously)
Me: Doctor.
PAUSE.
PAUSE.
MGF: Ach Du scheisse! #doctorhulu
Me: No. You’re wrong. It’s Doctor Spaulk.
MGF: Ha! Hmm. I was always more of a Mr. Spaulk guy, myself. #ears
Me: What a craulk.
MGF: #craulkodiletears
Me: Well, chaulk it up to experience.
MGF: Don’t raulk the boat, I always say. #seewhatyouvedone
Me: Don’t knaulk it til you try it, I always say. Though I ALSO always say: avoid electric shaulk.
Anyway, it just deteriorated (or should I say: ran amaulk?) from there so I’ll stop. Yes.
The best word ever!
Yay.
The word is WACKOPANTS, courtesy of the lovely Christina, who lives it. I will now be saying this all the time.
Mainly because I over-identify with it, being a huge wackopants myself.
That’s it for now.
Tomorrow we will chicken it up and there will be more.
In the meantime, I wish you a day that includes elements of ridiculousness, contemplation, and at least a couple of thoroughly wackopants moments — maybe even some that lead you to a bing or a thrum or that elusive thing that I’m calling elation.
Waving to all the commenter mice, the Beloved Lurkers, everyone who reads. Back to “normal” posting (uh, talking to walls and mindfully biggifying) soon!